Helping Hand
by inthelookingglass
Summary: Sick!fic one shots/vignettes between the Les Amis.
1. The Intervention

Enjolras isn't quite sure exactly when he first notices it. The thought just seems to creeps up on him, it's slimy fingers prying at his neck until he's one hundred percent sure that there's something wrong with his friend. He hadn't picked up on it when he first walked in, loudly conversing with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, yet now, the only thought stirring its way through his brain is the fact that Feuilly looks positively miserable. A muffled cough and a suppressed sigh just confirms his concerns.

He's tempted to intervene right there and then as Feuilly rubs his nose desperately with the back of his hand, but it's not as if he's trying to hide his illness like he himself might; he just can't afford to be ill. He's not got a lot of money as it is, but any absences from work will leave him with even less. Just a couple of days off and he risks getting his wages cut, and any more than a week and his job is hanging in the balance. And then of course, there's Feuilly's unwavering resilience; no matter how sick he is, he tries his best to brave through it and not take it lying down. A little cold isn't going to kill him.

A glance around the room proves to Enjolras that his other friends are fully aware of their friend's comprimised health, they just seem to not be doing anything about it. Bahorel is the only one sitting by him, talking loudly about how spicy food may drive away Feuilly's cold. Courfeyrac- the very person who must have been responsible for it considering just a week ago he was coughing up a lung- nods in agreement, telling him he'll give up his beloved hot sauce if it might make him feel better.

"Seriously, Feuilly, it'll sweat that fever right of you and clear up your nose and your throat will be hurting because it's hot not because you have a sore throat," Courfeyrac places a all-too-enthusiastic hand on his shoulder. "Don't bother with that lemsip shit; that'll just make you nauseous as well. That stuff tastes like actual shit. A nice bowl of tomato soup with a good two tablespoonfuls of hot sauce and you'll be better in no time.

Feuilly barely even bats an eyelid; he just nods minimally, willing to try anything that may better his chances for being well ahead of a week of night shifts. He feels abysmal; as if every ounce of good health has been drained from his body, leaving just the horrible ailment tearing its way through his immune system. Every breath becomes harder to take, his chest wheezing as he tries his best to take in air.

Even if he was trying to hide it like Enjolras would have done, it would be easy to decipher the truth. The little dip on his forehead where the bridge of his nose begins to appear and his cheeks are scarlet red, matching what Bahorel has christened his 'Rudolph nose', and his lips are chapped to the point they're almost bleeding. And then of course, there's the red rimmed eyes brimming with water, which without fail trickles down his feverish cheeks every time he blinks. And the cough; that blood-curdling crackly cough that sets Combeferre and Joly's doctor modes off, to the point where they're practically reaching in their bags for their stethoscopes to check that it's just a cold and not pneumonia.

Bahorel rises from his chair, announcing that their next round of drinks are on him, giving Enjolras the chance to speak with the ill man.

"You should be at home," Enjolras sits down onto the chair Bahorel has just got up from.

"Don't have my car and can't afford a taxi" he sighs. "Have to wait."

"I'll give you a run home," he smiles gently. "And don't trust Courfeyrac with that hot sauce advice; he tried it that time I had sinusitis last year and it just made it worse."

"I'll be okay," he coughs heavily. "The minute I give into it I'll not be able to get up, and I've got a long shift tomorrow night."

"The minute they see you tomorrow they'll send you home; you're really sick, Feuilly. They're not going to force you to work when you can barely stand."

"They've done it before."

"Yeah, and after the time where you literally puked over everything I don't think they're going to risk it, my friend."

"I wouldn't want to be pulling you away from here whilst you're having a good time-"

"But I'm not; everyone's drunk -even Combeferre- and I'm worried about you. Combeferre mentioned-when he was sober, of course- that he didn't like the sound of your cough."

"C-can we go?" he finally gives in, practically bolting out the door without so much as a goodbye.

"Feuilly's not feeling well so I'm going to give him a lift up the road," Enjolras quickly whispers to Bahorel as he passes him with a tray of drinks, who waves his friend a concerned goodbye with his free hand.

Enjolras practically has to carry Feuilly to his car, his legs feeling shaky from fever. A heavy hacking cough almost makes him gag, but Enjolras barely even flinches, placing a gentle hand against his friend's back to steady him. Feuilly is as thin as a rake, so it's not as if he's heavy to support, but the car park is a good walk from the pub so he's eternally thankful when he finally lowers his friend into the passenger seat.

"How long have you been sick for?" Enjolras asks as he reverses the car out of the space.

"Since Friday?" he shrugs, placing a hand to his aching head. "It was just like a cold then and yesterday, but it feels more like a virus or something now."

"It probably is; you caught it from Courfeyrac, and that's what he had last week."

"It's always him that starts it, isn't it?" he lets out an exasperated sigh.

"I'll bet you a tenner it's Grantaire next," Enjolras tilts his mouth into a crooked smile. "Then Joly and Bahorel on the same day, then Combeferre, Jehan, Bossuet... And to top it all off, Marius last."

"Hmm I don't know. Joly next. Bahorel, then Grantaire. Combeferre won't get sick, Bossuet won't get sick and Marius will catch something completely unrelated and blame us all."

"I'm thinking mine, Courfeyrac's and Combeferre's house instead? We have central heating, and we won't have to stop off to pick up any supplies because Combeferre always keeps a stash."

Feuilly nods gratefully, although even the tiniest movement sends pain searing into his head. He tries his best to sleep on the way home, but his mind is filled with thoughts about what will happen if he's too ill to work the next day. Maybe it's the fever, but he can't quite shake the image of his boss screaming in his ear about how he's a 'lazy layabout who doesn't deserve a job here' as the thought stirs.

"I'm phoning in sick for you tomorrow, Feuilly," Enjolras insists as Feuilly chokes again.

"Need to take in a line," he mumbles quietly.

"You thought you were getting out of a doctor's appointment? No chance. I'll phone the doctor and we'll get you a line, and I'll hand it in before you're due to be at work."

It's a good hour before Courfeyrac and Combeferre return, thankfully seeming more sober than they were when Enjolras and Feuilly had left. The alcohol practically drains out of Combeferre's system when the sight of Feuilly's pale white face hits him. He fetches a thermometer and his spare stethoscope, quickly finding his way to the sofa to give him a check over.

"Lift your shirt," he states, first placing the thermometer in his mouth. "If there's even so much as a tiny crackle you're going to A and E, my friend."

"Understood," he whispers hoarsely, the thermometer rattling in his mouth as he talks.

He takes a minute to check, not giving anything away on his face. He checks twice. Three times. A fourth for good measure.

"It's not pneumonia," he finally smiles, accepting the thermometer from his mouth. "High fever though. Even a degree higher and it's the hospital, alright?"

"Yes, doc," he sighs heavily, sinking down into the sofa.

The doctor's appointment the next morning proves Feuilly's prediction; it's a viral chest infection, and a bad one at that. He'd prepared himself for it; he walks away with his doctor's line, and as he expected no antibiotics, considering they'll do absolutely nothing if it's a virus. He tries to tell Enjolras that he'll be alright and head back to his own home, but Enjolras is having none of it. He knows Feuilly is only saying this because he doesn't want to be a burden, but that's far from what he'd ever be. Enjolras harbours a great respect for Feuilly; he has barely anything to his name, yet he works with such a resilient effort, not resting until he's completed the task and to a high standard. Even now, poorly and exhausted, he's insisting that he's able to carry on.

"No," Enjolras smiles gently. "You're not well, and I'm worried about you. You aren't going to be a burden, Feuilly."

"The doctor really didn't have to give me a two week line-"

"Feuilly, you are the only person apart from me who would be unhappy that they're going to be off work for two weeks."

"I need money-"

"They're not going to cut your wages if you've got a line; it's like a legal requirement."

He sighs, feeling miserable as he hacks away, feeling the catarrh dislodge uncomfortably in his throat. Enjolras' heart bleeds for him as he watches his friends eyes streaming. He almost has the impulse to hug him as he wipes his runny nose into the sleeve of his hoodie because he doesn't have a tissue, but instead, he hands him the pack they've just purchased from the pharmacy and smiles sympathetically. He'd usually be thankful that it wasn't him, but it's such a rare occurrence that Feuilly isn't in full health that there's something all too unnerving about it. There's something all the more innervating about the crackle of Feuilly's cough; the great noise of his sniffles; the heaviness of his exhausted sighs.

Enjolras leaves quickly after for the factory Feuilly works in. He's almost nervous, but the fact that he has the doctor's line clutched between his fingertips makes him a little bit calmer about the prospective reaction from his friend's boss. He soon discovers that Feuilly's current boss is not the moody tyrant it used to be; it's a smiling woman who raises her eyebrow at the sight of the blond man.

"Let me guess, you're one of Feuilly's friends?"she calls him into the office with a smile. "He's not going to be in today, is he?"

"He's sick," Enjolras nods genuinely. "Really bad chest infection that must be going round."

"Don't look so nervous; he looked awful on Friday but he said he had something important to finish."

"I've got a doctor's line here; Feuilly said you'd need one?"

"Thank you."

He breathes a sigh of relief as he returns back home. The rest of his day-and his week more or less- is spent being Feuilly's caretaker. He keeps himself busy; heating up tins of soup which is basically the only thing he can cook without burning the whole house down; keeping on top of Feuilly's medication; keeping track of his temperature. Towards the end of the week where Feuilly is a little more coherent, they speak about politics and world events. Enjolras never really gets a chance to talk so deeply with Feuilly, so for that he is thankful.

As Feuilly returns back to his own home-admittedly still poorly with a hoarse throat and low grade fever- he can't help but feel strangely thankful for the fact that his friend had been ill. Alright, it had been awful to see him so miserable, yet something good had come out of it; they walked away as closer friends. Both harboured mutual respect for each other prior to the week; yet now however, that respect had turned into a deep admiration.


	2. Admitting Defeat

Anyone within the close knit group of Enjolras-the young prospective lawyer; the gleaming blond; the thriving revolutionary- would know that the man is _never _ill. He practically thrives on the fact that he _never _has so much as a sniffle; he'd been spared from the great 'stomach flu' of last year, hasn't had even a cold for months and can't even remember the last time he felt a pain that wasn't caused by injury. His immune system _never _fails him.

Or at least, that's what Enjolras would tell you. All of those in Enjolras' close knit group of friends would be fully aware that their friend has a far more compromised immune system than he attempts to lead them to believe. He's usually the unlucky one that catches two colds during the time of summer colds; he has the weakest stomach of them all; he's usually struck hardest by anything going around. And then of course, there's the awful migraines which happen almost once a month; sometimes even twice if he's most unlucky, which leave him struggling to speak, in unbearable pain and make him vomit profusely. Despite this, he does his best to try and hide the fact that he's not feeling his best; he'll shiftily avoid seeing his friends because he suddenly has 'an essay to do', or he'll force himself to go ahead with his usual plans with a smile hiding the pain. Normally, he'll get away with it and deal with his illnesses the best way he can; in peace. In the times where this method is unsuited, he'll either push himself to breaking point(thus vomiting over the entire flat, or landing himself in hospital with pneumonia) or allow himself to give in and waddle through to Combeferre.

As he walks into the Musain for a meeting that night, he has his doubts about his plan to do the complete opposite. He's not sure why he made this sudden decision; normally, if he felt like how he was feeling today, he would have plastered a grin on his face and stormed right up to the front too speak. He's not feeling particularly bad- just a ticklish throat and a bit of a headache- so it's not that he's too ill to bear through it.

The real reason he's decided to admit his ailment, is the fact that he's one hundred percent sure that Courfeyrac is sharing his misery. Now, Courfeyrac isn't exactly the type to try and avoid the concern of his friends, so he's not exactly trying to hide the fact that he's not well; it's that Courfeyrac is stubborn and decides to take on the 'yes I'm ill, but I'll be fine' mentality. He hates feeling unwell, so he doesn't let it get in the way of the things he wants to do. The state of his friend's health makes Enjolras worry that he's going to feel worse; the hoarseness of his voice; the fever glazed cheeks; the dizzy squint of his brow.

He wants Courfeyrac to rest; to curl up on the sofa instead of running to the Musain to join his friends. Normally, Combeferre would be there to coax him into taking a break, but he's away for most of the week and Enjolras doesn't share his persuasive abilities. Now, he doesn't exactly want to take a break himself; but if it means he can get Courfeyrac to relax a little, he doesn't mind lounging on the sofa for a few days and being truthful for once.

He starts his plot with acting how he usually does; the coughs hidden into his hand; the all too obvious clench of the bridge of his nose when he thinks the others aren't looking; the blatant hoarseness of his voice as he leads the meeting. Courfeyrac notices, but as usual he doesn't say anything. Enjolras usually comes around, and he's not quite sure he has the effort to convince him today. His throat is killing him, and he can feel the swollen glands beneath his jaw as he rests his heavy head onto his shaky hand. Enjolras wanders over once he is finished with the meeting, his feet shuffling lethargically as he sits beside him.

"Are you alright?" Courfeyrac gives him a sympathetic smile.

"Not really," he sighs; this response makes Courfeyrac's jaw drop.

"You must be really ill to be admitting that," he smiles gently. "Can we head then, now the meeting is over?"

"Yes, but first things first, how are you? You're not looking to well yourself. Still not feeling great?"

"I thought it was going to go away but now it's just worse. It seems as though the tables have turned; I was just about to say I was fine. I'm kind of glad you'd admitted though; we can just curl up and do nothing for a couple of days."

"We're on break anyway; no university, no work," Enjolras eventually smiles, his voice coming out all rough. "We can have the week to ourselves, eh? Well, Combeferre will be back on Thursday."

Quick goodbyes and glances of concern are shared before they finally bundle into the car, turning the heating right up to account for the chills brought on by fever. Enjolras considers running back in to ask if they could get a lift instead, but soon decides that his headache doesn't quite warrant for an inability to drive and besides, their flat is only a five minute drive from the Musain. He smiles, finally realising the magnitude of his recent breakthrough; he actually managed to confess he was feeling unwell for possibly the first time in his life. He continues grinning as he watches Courfeyrac shuffle into their living room, slumping down onto the sofa a little too dramatically for effect.

"I'm sicker, so you can sort out tea and films and duvets and stuff," his lips widen to reveal his grin.

"Courfeyrac logic, hmm?" Enjolras shakes his head, laughing heartily. "It's alright; so tea then? No food, I'm betting? I have no appetite either."

"The best kind of logic. No food. Tea, with two sugars and just a tiny bit of milk."

He wanders back through a few minutes later balancing a tray in one hand, and holding a box of pills in the other. He quickly places it onto the coffee table in front of the sofa before clambering through to fetch two duvets, a book and his iPod.

"So I have ibuprofen and throat lozenges," he announces, curling up under his own blanket. "Blackcurrant ones, because I know you hate the lemon kind."

"You're too kind to me, Enjolras," Courfeyrac accepts the packet, his voice sounding worse by the second. "My throat absolutely kills."

"Joly said it might be tonsillitis? At least that's what our voices sound like."

"Yeah, like not exactly hoarse, but kind of warped?"

"Exactly," Enjolras nods. "If either of us get any worse, we'll go see Joly. If not, we'll just wait until Combeferre gets back."

Since Joly had finally qualified to be a general practitioner, the entire group of friends had appointed him as their regular doctor. It is convenient- as they could just give him a call and easily acquire a prescription- but Joly does have the tendency to worry a lot.

"I miss him," Courfeyrac mumbles tiredly, pouting as if he's about to cry. "I miss him a lot."

"He's back in two days," Enjolras smiles sympathetically, noticing a slight change in his friend's demeanour as he places his hand to his forehead. "You're feverish."

"No shit. I feel so bloody awful."

"You look it too. You seem to be worse than me."

"Don't know how. You usually take things really bad."

"No I don't."

"Enjolras-"

"Okay, maybe I do."

Courfeyrac sighs, too tired to muster up a smile. The tea helps his throat a little, but that isn't really what is bothering him. It's the general malaise; the headache, the aching of his bones, the indescribable unwell feeling. He looks to Enjolras, who is perhaps too early into the illness to be sharing the sensation, and exhales heavily. Enjolras notices Courfeyrac's tenseness, shuffling his hand underneath his friend's curls to check his temperature again.

"I'd hate to call Combeferre back from seeing his parents this early," he allows Courfeyrac to cuddle into his shoulder. "But I may have to."

"S'okay," Courfeyrac sighs, although all he wants is his friend's presence.

"I have to. You really aren't well."

Slipping from Courfeyrac's clingy hug, he reaches for his phone before sinking back into the sofa. His hand hovers over the phone before he finally commits to making the call. It rings twice and he's practically about to hang up when Combeferre's gentle tone comes through the mobile. He knows from the tiny little 'hello' that something's up, but he waits, although not expecting Enjolras to actually admit to anything.

"Sorry for calling," Enjolras stops to clear his throat. "Courfeyrac's sick, I'm out of my depth and-"

"You don't sound so good yourself," there's almost a smirk to Combeferre's tone, but Enjolras-in his fevered state- doesn't quite register it. "Are you sure you're not sick as well?"

"I am. Courfeyrac's further into it than I am though."

"Is that you admitting to illness? I may just faint. I'm in shock."

"Quit it. I'm too ill for your sarcasm."

"Do you want me to come home?"

"No... I don't know... It wouldn't be fair-"

"Enjolras?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm outside."

"Wait what?" Enjolras thinks he's having a fever-fuelled hallucination now.

"Look out the window."

"But you were in-"

"Joly called."

In walks Combeferre just as Enjolras places down the phone. He smiles gently, somehow his presence allowing Enjolras the liberty to admit that he's feeling more than just a little ill. He sighs, curling back up next to Courfeyrac who has barely even noticed that Combeferre is there. After shoving his suitcase back into his room, Combeferre joins the pair in the living room to check them over.

"Open up," he orders Enjolras. "Say ah. Tonsillitis. Definitely."

"Would it be right to wake Courfeyrac?" the blond stares up lethargically, already half asleep himself.

"Joly organized antibiotics; have to wake him for him to take them."

They work their magic, because after two days the pair are all smiles and proper voices again. Enjolras celebrates this liberty by well, preaching about liberty. And Courfeyrac? He's just glad to be able to see his friends again, free from the constraints of the couch chaining him to tedious hours of doing nothing. He's eternally grateful that Enjolras had admitted to his illness too; he couldn't have dealt with his dismissive nonsense feeling like he did. And hey, maybe the stubborn man is finally learning his lesson.


	3. Man Flu

Perhaps the only idiosyncrasy that irks Bahorel concerning his friends is their profuse tendency to make a big deal out of things that really aren't a big deal. I mean, sure, almost half of the group are sniffling and coughing and complaining as every second of the menial meeting continues, but really, there's no need for the acting like it's the zombie virus.

Combeferre is the worst for it. 'Mother hen' doesn't quite cover his current behaviour, as he gathers all of the 'sickies' in one corner of the Musain and spawns a handful of thermometers from his messenger bag('does he really carry around all of this crap?' Bahorel mutters under his breath to Feuilly, who despite having acquired the cold has managed to sneak past Combeferre's watchful eye). Yes, this makes sense with Enjolras. The man doesn't do anything in halves with colds turning into chest infections or bringing about a migraine at least, and he leaves colds for so long until he's run himself ragged. But with Courfeyrac? With Bossuet? With Jehan? And now with Feuilly as he realises he's slipped from his grips?

All this over silly little winter colds. Low grade fevers, scratchy throats and blocked noses aren't going to kill them. Nor are they enough to warrant days off work, and therefore in practice, having to leave the meeting early.

Perhaps the only idiosyncrasy that irks his friends concerning Bahorel is his profuse tendency to be a hypocrite about this situation. The phrase 'man flu' couldn't be more apt. He'll complain and exaggerate, but god forbid you fuss over him, because he'll push you aside. The next day, with the Musain turning into a breeding ground for illness, it seems a miracle that he's even turned up. Choking back a nose full of mucus, he proclaims with deep sympathy, 'I hate to break it to you guys, but I think I'm dying'. Courfeyrac, choked up himself, rolls his eyes.

"It's a cold, Bahorel," he laughs. "I don't even think this counts as being ill. It's just bloody annoying."

"Speak for yourself!" he groans. "I think this may be the flu. I can't breathe through my nose, I have a cough, I'm a little nauseous-"

"Bahorel, it's a cold."

"Which I have because of you."

"Well actually," Courfeyrac smirks. "Joly had it first so technically it's _his _fault. If we're being more exact here, you've probably got it off Feuilly considering you live with him?"

"Courfeyrac leave him alone," Enjolras croaks. "You're all here is what matters. I wouldn't want any of you making a big deal over a silly little cold and using it as an excuse to have a rest."

"Although you should be doing so, Enjolras," the smirk fades into a look of concern. "We're all okay- well, Bahorel may disagree- but you... you aren't well."

"I think I've pestered him enough to drill the message in," Combeferre shrugs. "If he doesn't listen, he doesn't listen."

"Managed to get a doctor's appointment this morning. It's just gone to my chest, is all," Enjolras confirms. "I'm taking it easy tonight. Just paperwork and good company."

Enjolras resides to a corner of the Musain, using the opportunity to catch up on sorting out a few leaflets, which is possibly the only job he feels well enough to do at the present moment.

Combeferre's mother hen act makes a reappearance moments later. Bahorel looks surreptitiously in his direction as he eyes up Jean Prouvaire, hoping that he'll somehow be spared from the doctor's wrath. He'll complain until his heart is content, but there's something about others making a fuss over him that is altogether unsettling. It seems to be his unlucky day, as before he can jump to the bar to create a diversion, the back of Combeferre's hand is pressed up against his forehead.

"Back off, would you?" he clenches his hand around Combeferre's wrist. "I'm sick. I know I'm sick. What's placing your hand on my forehead going to do?"

"You're such a drama queen," Feuilly laughs, stopping to blow his nose. "We're all in the same boat as you."

"Yeah well maybe if we weren't all in the same boat spreading our germs we wouldn't all have the cold, would we?"

"Leave him alone," Combeferre sighs. "People deal with colds differently. Just because you guys can power through it doesn't mean everyone can."

At some moment during the evening, Courfeyrac has the bright idea to transfer the meeting to the apartment he shares with Enjolras and Combeferre. Why there is need for a meeting, he's unsure, but it's a sensible move. No matter how they may be displaying themselves, every single one of them feels miserable. Enjolras trudges up to bed, leaving his friends arranged into a circle of blankets around the living room. Bahorel somehow gets the sofa, curling up underneath a duvet and slipping in and out of sleep. Courfeyrac takes over lemsip duties from a tired looking Combeferre, wandering through with a tray of mugs as he takes a giant sniff through his congested nose.

"Bahorel, since apparently, you're the sickest," he sighs. "Lemon or Blackcurrant?"

"I'm alright," he shrugs, looking all the more subdued. "I can't drink that stuff."

"Permission to check this time?" Combeferre rises from his position on the floor, raising his hand tentatively over his friend's forehead.

"Sure."

"Maybe you aren't exaggerating," he readjusts his hand, when Courfeyrac appears with a thermometer.

"So what is it, doc?" Bahorel looks up tiredly as the beep sounds and the thermometer is pulled from his ear.

"Higher than you'd expect for a cold. The spare room's free. Go and get some rest, eh?"


End file.
